by Mark Pryor
CHAPTER FIVE
The Lambourd dining table was polished to perfection, and set with the precision of a Swiss watch. Just as it had been every a century. But now, the polisher-in-chief cowered in the hall-way between the dining room and the kitchen, listening to the argument and knowing she shouldn’t.
“You ought to let him rot in there!” It was the voice of Charlotte Lambourd, dry and brittle, and uncommonly angry. Tammy Fotinos was at once grateful for her gift for languages and slightly regretful. She’d needed to be fluent in French to get the job at the château, but might have been happier being oblivious to the mother-son argument.
“For goodness sake, Maman, it was a stupid mistake. You want him to miss the dinner, and the party, for a stupid mistake? What will people think if he’s not here because he’s in jail?”
“How many of those does he get, Marc?” The old lady snorted. “And I already know what people think.”
“You don’t know what it’s like for him.” Marc Lambourd’s voice was sullen now. “It’s been hard for him not knowing his mother, hard for me since.”
“Stop making excuses, for God’s sake,” Charlotte snapped. “She died in childbirth, he was never attached to her emotionally, he didn’t lose her in that way.”
“But I did, and he’s almost seventeen and lost out on knowing her at all. Just how long are we allowed to grieve for?” Marc was sarcastic now. “You let me know the timeline and I’ll fill him in. Tell him to get over it.”
“Telling him doesn’t do a damn thing. You’ve done that his whole life. He’s always been that way, and you’ve never done anything but talk to him. A few nights in jail will get his attention.”
“Yeah, neglect and excessive punishment, back to the basics you know, eh, Maman?”
“Don’t be a baby. My children turned out just fine.”
“Oh, we did, did we?” Marc Lambourd laughed. “That’s good to know.”
“Well, if you didn’t you’ve got no one to blame but yourselves.” Tammy took a few steps back toward the kitchen when she heard the old lady shuffling her feet. “I’m going for a nap. Do what the hell you like, but get that boy under control. This is still my house, and I have certain expectations.” Tammy imagined her waving a finger in her son’s face. “For you and for that boy of yours, dead mother or not.”
Tammy waited for them to leave the room, counting to sixty in her head to give them time. She loved this house, loved its location, its history, and the multitude of magnificent furnishings. She’d worked one summer in Disneyland, had a blast there, but this was like the real thing, being transported to somewhere even more magical. Even her role, effectively as a servant for this week, was part role-play, part real transformation. To take pride in polishing a table for other people, to take ownership in setting it absolutely perfectly, was something no modern American girl should aspire to. But royalty and history had always been like magnets to her, almost part of her soul, and to be this close to living history overcame any hesitation about playing a subservient role.
She moved forward toward the dining room, her mind back on the job at hand. She carried a notebook of precise instructions, what went where and when. For a hundred years the Lambourds had been served by the Grenelle family, but the old man had arthritis now and his wife and daughter had lost interest in playing at servant. Tammy had volunteered for it the previous year. She’d manned the reception desk for six months when the house was a museum, and so she was the first person the temp agency had approached, in case she wanted to make some good money while the museum was closed to the public for that Bastille week.
“You’ll have exact instructions on what to do,” they’d said. “No cooking, just setting everything up and cleaning afterward. We’ll provide a chef for the dinner, and waiters for the party. You just help make sure everything runs smoothly.”
She’d agreed immediately, needing the extra money and thrilled to be getting an inside look at the Lambourd family. One of them was even a real princess. It had been thrilling.
She stepped into the dining room, pausing when she saw Marc Lambourd was still there, staring out of the window at the luxurious gardens.
“Oh, sorry, Monsieur Lambourd, I didn’t mean to . . .”
He looked over at her, his face expressionless. He was a handsome man, with dark hair and darker eyebrows. But there was a tiredness about him she’d not seen the previous year. Eventually, he spoke. “Pas de problème. Tammy, nice to see you again.”
“And you, monsieur.”
“I’m glad we were able to get you to come back this year. I know Fabien will be as pleased as I am.” He laughed gently, and then his eyes narrowed. “My son. I think he liked you. He was not . . . inappropriate, I hope.”
“Non, monsieur. Pas du tout,” she reassured him. Not at all. That wasn’t strictly true, but Marc himself had been a little forward and, in her opinion, inappropriateness was in the eye of the beholder anyway.
“Did you overhear the discussion with my mother?” “Non. I mean, a little, nothing . . . much. I hope everything is all right.”
The corner ofhis mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles. “With my mother and me, or with my son?”
Tammy shrugged, at a loss for how to answer.
“He’s in jail, Tammy. Arrested last night for a pushing match with some hoodlum in Pigalle. My mother thinks he should remain there for a night or two, to show him the error of his ways.”
“Oh,” was all she could think to say. And then: “I’m sorry.”
“Set a place for him, if you please. I’ve already hired someone to get him out. If not for his sake, then to annoy my mother.” That small smile again.
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, but kept her thoughts to herself.
CHAPTER SIX
They waited for Hugo in Ambassador Taylor’s office, a grand space housing his expansive desk, two leather sofas, four matching armchairs, and (for winter) a stone fireplace. Hugo had called it a rich man’s study because it belonged in a château, and not in the outwardly impressive but inwardly rather drab US embassy.
Two of the president’s security detail stood outside the office, and they scrutinized Hugo’s ID before opening the door for him.
“Hugo, come in, come in.” Taylor rose from one of the armchairs and, behind him, so did the president of France. In the far corner a photographer had set up a camera on a tripod, facing a bookcase and ready to go to work, but trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The president, Marie Antoinette Bissett, moved toward him. She was a tall woman with striking blue eyes and a jaw that any Hollywood actor would die for. Her name, the Marie Antoinette part, had spawned a thousand cartoons and jokes about her losing her head, but Hugo had followed her rise through the ranks of French politics, and seen how every barb had missed its mark, or wound up pricking the thumb of the jokester who’d thrown it. She’d grown up poor in the suburbs of Paris, on the city’s outer edges, and had little time for pomp and circumstance. And, in most cases, tradition be damned. She moved past the ambassador, not waiting for an introduction.
“Monsieur Hugo Marston.” She extended a hand, and when he took it, her grip bordered on assault.
“Madame President.” Hugo gave a small bow. “Enchanté.”
“We can talk in English,” she said. “I need the practice. And I promise you, the pleasure is all mine. On behalf of myself as a Parisian, and on behalf of the wonderful people of this city and this nation, please accept my sincere thanks for your brave actions this evening.”
“You are too kind. I did what anyone else would have done. I was just lucky to be in the right place at the right time.”
“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Marston.” President Bissett gave a gentle laugh. “You shot the weapon from his hand before he could kill innocent people. You stopped a slaughter in one of the most popular and busy, not to mention peaceful, places in Paris.”
�
�Like I said, you’re very kind and I appreciate the—”
“Monsieur Marston. Whether you like it or not, you are a hero.”
Ambassador Taylor chortled. “Trust me, he doesn’t like it. Shall we get the pictures over with?”
“The sooner the better,” Hugo said.
They moved to where the photographer stood, and let him arrange them as he saw fit—Hugo the hero between the president and the ambassador. He took a dozen quick shots and then checked the screen on his camera. “Very good, thank you.”
They left him to pack up and show himself out, and Taylor led them back to the chairs.
“Please, Madame President, have a seat.”
They took their places and President Bissett leaned forward to talk. “Once we know more about who this shooter is, perhaps why he did this, we will have a small ceremony. I would like to award you the Honor Medal for Courage and Devotion. It is more than deserved.”
“Well,” Hugo began, “I’m grateful, of course—”
“Hugo, you are not turning down a medal from the president of France.” It was an order from the ambassador, not a question. “As President Bissett says, like it or not you saved lives this evening.”
“I also took one,” Hugo said grimly. “And being a realist, Madame President, do you think it wise to go slapping medals on Americans when it seems likely the bad guy was one of us?”
“Wait.” President Bissett sat up, concern on her face. “What did you just say?”
Hugo glanced at the ambassador. “I assumed you’d told her, sorry.”
“Told me what?” she pressed.
“This is why you’re not a diplomat, Hugo,” Taylor said grimly. “Madame President, we don’t know who he is or where he’s from. Hugo was shown on scene a passport that may or may not be a United States passport, and may or may not belong to the dead suspect.”
President Bissett frowned. “That would complicate things.”
“It would, but since we don’t know anything definitive right now we’re not advertising this,” Taylor said. “For extremely obvious reasons.”
“I understand,” Bissett said. “But I expect to be the first to know when you do hear something definite.”
“Of course,” Taylor said. “But I’m sure you’ll hear it from the French police long before we do.”
“Speaking of that, who’s working on this?” Hugo asked.
“Not you.”
“Come on, boss, I was right there.”
“And you know perfectly well that makes you a witness, which means you can’t be an investigator.”
Hugo knew Taylor was right, but he also knew it meant he’d be the last to hear anything.
President Bissett spoke up. “Even though it’s obvious what happened, I’m told there does have to be a formal investigation into the shooting of that man. As well as looking into him and his motives, of course.”
“That’s pretty standard,” Hugo said. “And you know I’ll cooperate. Who’s conducting it?”
“If I remember rightly, there’s a division with the Brigade Criminelle called the Special Investigations Unit, which handles all officer-involved shootings.”
“Great. They’ll have my full cooperation. And they know where to find me, right behind my desk.”
“Actually,” Ambassador Taylor began. “You’re going to need to take a few days off.”
“Boss, I’m fine. I don’t need days off, and I don’t need to see a counselor, which I’m sure is the next suggestion.”
“Days off isn’t a suggestion, Hugo, it’s a requirement. Every agency in the world puts their guys on administrative leave after a shooting. And since we’ll be working with the locals on this, and here at the embassy, you can’t be around.”
“Great.” Hugo sank back into his chair. “How long?”
“A few days. Hey, all the more reason to come with me to the Bastille Day party, at Château Lambourd.”
“Emma was trying to sell that to me, but you know I’m not a party person, boss.”
“I went to that two years ago,” President Bissett said. “Trust me, you should go. The house is magnificent, the party exquisite, and the people thoroughly fascinating.”
“How so?” Hugo asked.
“Let’s just say that there are a lot of ghosts in that house.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Hugo said.
“All the more reason to go. That place is . . . like I said, fascinating. Great history.”
“Of murder and mayhem,” Hugo said.
“That’s what makes it great.” President Bissett stood, and the two men did the same. “I have a dinner to attend, and I will need to make a statement to the press.” She put out her hand. “Thank you again, Monsieur Marston. You saved lives tonight. We will never know how many, but make no mistake, you saved innocent lives.”
When she’d gone, Ambassador Taylor poured them each a whisky, and they settled back into the armchairs.
“You’re okay, Hugo?”
“Fine. Really.”
“You shot someone tonight, so you know I have to ask.”
“Sadly, he’s not the first. But yeah, I get it. Thanks for looking out for me.”
“There’s going to be a lot of news coverage, too. Here and at home. I’m surprised your phone’s not blowing up.”
“It probably is.” Hugo grinned. “I dropped it off in my office before heading up here.”
Taylor smiled. “Good idea. You talk to Claudia? Tom?”
“Just Claudia. Right before I left the hospital, just to let her know I was fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You know, she agreed with you.”
“That you need days off and counseling?”
“No. That I should go to that damn party tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE KILLER
It’s not that I particularly enjoy killing. What I enjoy, what I need, is the rush that goes along with it. When your soul is a little empty, when you don’t feel the full range of normal human emotions, you have to latch onto the ones you do feel. But, like shoes or furniture, even the more extreme emotions get a little worn out, so to really feel their full power you have to turn up the volume. For example, where it used to be enough to flash strangers in a park, nowadays to feel that same surge of power and danger I have to sexually assault them. Not rape, I’m not an animal, just a grab or a grope to widen their eyes.
And don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kind of serial killer with ten, twenty, fifty names on my headboard. I’ve only killed twice, and both times it was necessary. Not self-defense, exactly, but . . . necessary.
Tonight’s dinner will, all by itself, be murder. A dwindling family getting together, maybe for the last time. One hopes. Our tensions and resentments tucked out of sight like the napkins that lie over our laps, our smiles as polished and precise as the silverware. By the time the cheese cart comes out I’ll be asking for my steak knife back to sever a few heads, I’m pretty sure. So many grudges and resentments served up alongside the onion soup and lamb chops.
I’ll watch the interactions with the eyes of an outsider and wonder if all families are like this, to some greater or lesser degree. The matriarch who brooks no impudence, is resistant to change, and hangs onto tradition like it were the strings of a parachute. Siblings maneuvering to curry favor with her, just in case a few more trinkets might be slid their way before she croaks. Old slights resurrected deliberately and with surgical precision, bringing back to life childhood paranoias and insecurities that follow each person like a ghost, invisible to most but inescapable to those they haunt.
It’s so cloying, this house. Everyone who visits is enchanted with its history, the suggestion that its owner may have committed murder on these very grounds (but good God, no one dares say anything aloud), the beauty of the place, the art on its walls, the centuries-old furniture filling its rooms. Rumor has it a member of the English or French royal families has slept in every bed in
the house. There are twelve beds in seven bedrooms, so either that’s a handful of energetic blue-bloods, or those beds need changing out.
I wonder if my actions tonight will screw up the party. If I’m honest, and I rarely am, it’s one of the reasons I’m doing this, to see if the old lady will continue to hang onto those parachute strings, whether she’ll insist the party goes on as normal or be the first head of the Lambourd family in a hundred years to not hold the party of the year. I think I know the answer already, but I’m still looking forward to watching it all play out.
And lest anyone think I am committing murder lightly, I am not. There is method to my madness, which of course brings up the question of whether psychopathy is, in fact, madness. A larger question, and not one I intend to entertain right now.
After all, I have more planning to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tammy Fotinos slipped out of her lover’s room just after two o’clock in the morning. The dinner had gone well, at least as far as she could tell, even though some of the family members had drunk more than they’d eaten. Her lover was tipsy to be sure, but sober enough to slip her a note as she cleared the dessert plates, and definitely sober enough a short while later to strip her naked in under a minute. They’d barely said a word to each other—no time for small talk in those thirty minutes, just the taste of expensive port on their lips and the smell of leather-bound books and old but polished furniture in the bedroom.
She closed the door behind her and checked the long hallway to make sure no one would see her creep back downstairs to her room. She needed to make it halfway, to the staircase that led down to the second and then the ground floor, and her room in what used to be the servants’ quarters.
It still is, silly, she thought.
It was dark, but not quite pitch-black thanks to the light spreading thinly from the sitting area that lay by the staircase, and she moved slowly toward it, aware of every creak of the floorboards beneath her bare feet.